


will my affection pull the strings

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Moving In Together, One Shot, Post-Time Skip, lol so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26263612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tetsurou cooks dinner, and Kenma asks a question.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma & Kuroo Tetsurou, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 10
Kudos: 149





	will my affection pull the strings

**Author's Note:**

> fair warning: this is post-time skip and contains spoilers about what kuroo and kenma are up to towards the end of the series! (not major spoilers by any means but for those who may be extra cautious)
> 
> this is stupid fluffy, but i really wanted to write some domestic & all-grown-up kuroken, to exorcise some lingering personal angst about how little we saw of them after the timeskip :'-) all the same, i hope you enjoy!
> 
> title is from the song "tenderness" by jay som: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wd5FyYa_H_I

“Dinner’s ready,” Tetsurou yells, pulling a sheet out of the oven as the timer goes off with a ding. He pokes at its sizzling contents: today’s menu is grilled halibut, resting on a laurel of lemon slices and thyme sprigs. The crisp give of the silver skin, just-burnt and caramelized – and the warm, savory smell that fills the kitchen – means that it’s cooked to perfection, Tetsurou is pleased to observe. He messes around with the plating, a new habit most definitely a product of his recent obsession with Iron Chef, before placing the afternoon’s handiwork on the dining table, which is already laden with utensils, plates, small appetizers, and bowls of fluffy white rice. The sun is just now setting, casting a cozy glow across the kitchen. Nothing better than a simple meal of fish and rice at the end of a long week, Tetsurou notes solemnly to himself.

A soft patter of feet approaching the dining room breaks Tetsurou out of his hunger-induced internal monologue. Kenma pauses in the doorway and gives him a once-over; the corners of his lips twitch before he continues to make his way to the dining table.

“What,” Tetsurou asks flatly, placing his hands on his hips in false offense. Kenma settles into his seat at the table, folding his legs under him like a cat, a habit he’s had since he was a kid. He’s brought his Canon DSLR out, and he gently places it in the chair beside him.

“Nothing,” he says, resting his chin in his hands to look up at Tetsurou. “This smells really good, Kuro. I could smell it from the game room.” 

“Nothing, my ass… you’re definitely smirking about something,” Tetsurou gripes, picking up a pitcher. “You want barley tea or water?”

“Barley tea, please,” Kenma answers, proffering his drinking glass so that Tetsurou can fill it. “I wasn’t smirking. I was just thinking, you look really… domestic right now.”

“What do you mean?” Tetsurou asks distractedly, turning in slow circles. “Do you see where I put my chopsticks? I swear they were right here…” Kenma points at the stove, where they’re resting across the mouth of a stock pot.

“Like, your getup,” he quips, and Tetsurou starts, turning back around with his chopsticks. “With the oven mitt and stuff.”

“Huh?” Tetsurou looks down at himself; he had forgotten he was still wearing the mitt on his left hand, and he had thrown an apron on in a somewhat futile attempt to prevent fishy smoke from settling into his nice work clothes. Rather unfortunately, the apron was a Christmas gift from Bokuto; the slogan “Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’” is seared across the chest in Comic Sans, but it’s the only apron Tetsurou owns, and it does the job – namely, keeping his Armani shirts free of soy sauce stains. On his feet are the black cat-eared slippers that Kenma had ordered specifically for his use, in which Tetsurou spends most evenings of the week shuffling around Kenma’s tatami-mat floors. “Oh. I guess I do look rather like a housewife right now, huh.” Grinning, he pulls off the mitt and slides into his seat, joining Kenma at the table. “You like?”

“Yeah, it’s cute,” Kenma replies nonchalantly, and sips at his tea. Tetsurou grins wider. They’ve been dating for a few years now – and they’ve been best friends for a decade more – but every unprompted compliment Kenma tosses Tetsurou’s way is still a nice surprise. In adulthood, Kenma has become less guarded, more open; especially, Tetsurou likes to think, with him. “Thank you for the food, Mr. Housewife.”

“Eat up,” Tetsurou laughs, as Kenma is already making for the halibut. “I’m the best housewife you’ll ever have, Kenma – don’t take me for granted, okay.”

“Who says I am,” Kenma mumbles through a mouthful of fish. “This is really good – oh, fuck. I forgot. Do you mind?” He sets his chopsticks down and, with a sigh, picks up the DSLR. 

“Ah, the camera eats first, of course,” Tetsurou drawls, leaning back, and Kenma rolls his eyes, flicking the lens cap off. “And… roll scene.” 

Kenma stands up to get the entirety of the dinner spread in the camera’s frame. “…this is my dinner,” he starts explaining to no one in particular, lazily panning the camera over each of the dishes on the table. His “on air” voice is just slightly less disaffected than the tone he uses with Tetsurou, with friends. “Grilled halibut with lemon, and rice, and miso soup… and some banchan Fukunaga and I made from a Korean recipe book last week. Well, I only helped a little, I guess. The lotus root is my favorite, though – it’s sweet and savory, and it goes well with salty things, like fish. Sorry I already started eating the fish, I always forget to record before eating.” After a beat of silence, Kenma finishes the recording and plops back down. “I’m sick of vlogging,” he grumbles, trading the camera for his chopsticks, with which he begins to attack the halibut.

“Hey, what did the fish do to you? And it’s nice that you still make the effort,” Tetsurou chuckles, moving some pickled perilla leaves onto Kenma’s plate before helping himself to the halibut. “You know the viewers love it – a look into the star Kodzuken’s day-to-day life.” Tetsurou often teases Kenma about his newfound celebrity status – a career no one, not even Kenma, saw coming for him – but he knows that Kenma’s appeal to his 1 million followers lies precisely in how normal, how unaffected he is, even when broadcasting to complete strangers. The comment sections on Kenma’s Twitch streams and YouTube vlogs make it clear that his fans find his no-frills personality and dry-as-dirt humor endearing, especially when he takes no care to hide it as he delivers in-game commentary or bland narration on the videotaped details of his personal life. Like grilled fish for dinner, already partially devoured.

“Not a celebrity,” Kenma replies automatically; he’s used to delivering this rebuff. “People just recognize me in public, that’s all.” He fixes Tetsurou with his sharp golden eyes as he chews slowly on a perilla leaf. “Kuro, your lease is up in April, right?” 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Tetsurou answers, spearing a cube of radish kimchi. His apartment is a decently-sized flat on the 23rd floor of a high-rise building in Ebisu, and he’s been there for all of one year, the time that’s elapsed since he received a promotion to associate at the Japan Volleyball Association and subsequently upgraded his living situation. Even though his apartment is more modern and comes with more amenities than Kenma’s spacious but older house in the suburbs of Hatagaya, Tetsurou has been finding himself at Kenma’s more and more with the passing months, especially as work calms down with the off-season. In any case, maybe half of Tetsurou’s wardrobe has made its way over to the drawers and shelves of Kenma’s closets over the past few years; nowadays, Tetsurou packs to go back to his own apartment from Kenma’s, rather than the other way around.

There’s a brief moment of silence. “I think I’m looking to buy,” Kenma says, quietly. “Not this place, but another place, maybe closer to where you work in Omotesando.” He starts poking at the lumpy pile of boiled spinach Tetsurou has been stacking on his plate, then stops, looking back up. “Would you want to look with me?” 

Tetsurou stops mid-chew and stares back. “Are you asking me to move in with you?” 

“Yeah, wouldn’t that make sense? Since you’re here so often, anyway. I don’t see how you pay so much rent for an apartment you barely live in.” Kenma’s gone a little pink, but he’s resolute, and his question sounds more like a statement of something else, Tetsurou thinks fondly, dropping another pickled perilla leaf on Kenma’s plate. “Stop giving me vegetables, I’m asking a serious question.” 

“Okay, okay,” Tetsurou laughs, putting his hands up in false surrender. He leans back and smugly smooths over the screen-printed text on his obnoxious apron. “It sounds like you want me to be your housewife… full-time. You like the food that much?”

“Shut up,” Kenma says automatically. One of the things Tetsurou likes most about their relationship is how fast they cycle through lovers, childhood friends, and all the other things they are and have been throughout the years. “Just say yes, no, or you’ll think about it. I don’t need an answer right away.” Kenma looks down at his plate. “But… it would be nice if we could live together, for real.”

“Of course,” Tetsurou answers easily, not missing a beat. “Of course I’ll move in with you.” He taps Kenma’s fuzzy-sock-clad foot under the table with his own. “In fact, I’d like nothing more.”

Kenma exhales a breath Tetsurou didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay, good,” he says. “I thought you’d say yes, but I was still nervous.” He picks at the halibut, now just a skeleton and a tail. “It’s a big step.”

“Mm… maybe,” Tetsurou says. He thinks about how, when he’s getting dressed out of his own closet, he has to search far and wide for a normal tie (i.e. one that’s not a gag gift from Bokuto) because they’re all at Kenma’s. He thinks about late-night walks with Kenma around his neighborhood, which is safe and quiet and affords them the peace and solitude to hold hands all the way. He also thinks about less-than-logistical concerns, like waking up every morning next to Kenma, whose job sometimes lets him sleep in as late as 11am, and the labor of love that is jostling Kenma back into bed around midnight, or sometimes later if Tetsurou’s feeling extra generous or if they’re both working late. As much as Tetsurou feigns annoyance at the unfolded clothes and tangled cables scattered around the rooms of Kenma’s house, he’d much rather be scolding Kenma than spending time alone, these days. “But you’re right – it does make sense for us.”

Kenma shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” 

“Going sap mode. Your face.”

“Don’t be rude, this is just how my face looks.” The rising heat in Tetsurou’s cheeks and the involuntary stretch of muscles around the corners of his lips inform him otherwise, but he still tells Kenma, “Besides, I’m not in sap mode.” 

“Are, too.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.” 

“Am not.”

“Are... too.” Kenma gets up and ducks away to put his dirty dishes in the sink, and Kuroo knows he’s smiling, too. Just for tonight, he decides not to give him a hard time about it.

**Author's Note:**

> i love the idea of kenma not really understanding how he got famous/still in disbelief that people recognize him on the streets, lol


End file.
